Epiphany
by Hemlata
Summary: A DH story, fairly true to the original plot line, written from Hermione's perspective, starting from the point where Ron left... A story of Hermione discovering, in the silences shared with her best friend, what love truly meant... what love had meant all along. (No Ron-bashing).
1. Breaking

And then his words, spat out with bitter fury, "I get it. You choose him."

I froze. I could not recognise the face before my eyes. It was not Ron, it could not be Ron. I had known him to be occasionally jealous and insecure, overshadowed as he was by his siblings and his famous best friend, sidelined as he tended to get, as nothing more than a sidekick of the great Harry Potter. I could never identify with his emotions, but I had been able to rationalise them, understand them even. I had always been sympathetic. I had always been there for him.

But that he could doubt me, after everything we had shared – I would not have thought it even remotely possible.

I naively searched for the Ron I knew in the steely eyes that met mine, beseeching him to come back to me. But something had broken, perhaps irretrievably so.

I heard my voice plead as he turned his back to me, "Ron, no – please – come back, come back!"

I shook myself out of my hurt. He was leaving, leaving me. No, I could not allow this to happen. Nothing would make any sense anymore. If he left, everything he left behind, would be over.

Something stopped me. In my heart, I knew it was not just the Shield Charm that I had cast to stop Ron and Harry from attacking each other. In my heart, I knew a part of me had snapped out of the delusions that it had been nurturing.

But this was not the time. I removed the Shield Charm and ran into the darkness, calling his name, my tears mingling with those of the heavens above. I knew he had disapparated, but I did not stop. My hands brushed across the harsh edges of tree barks as I ran, but nothing could overpower the pain I felt inside. I sank down to my knees, weighed down by my own tears, feeling rains cascade over me, lashing out at me like icy swords. I could not help but blame myself for his leaving. It was not just a departure, it was more - it was an insult, a cold rejection of everything our relationship and I had stood for. I had failed. Failed to make him to trust in me, in us. Why else would things have come to this? Why else would he have doubted my love, or Harry's friendship?

I remembered Harry. Back in the tent. I knew that he would be just as hurt, but it was Harry. He would not cry it out, he would internalise all the pain, channeling it within himself where it would continue to smoulder, threatening to explode ever so often. The thought of him alone in silence, lost, abandoned, made me wipe away my tears. It was not his fault. None of this was. He did not deserve the burden that had been thrust upon him, or the solitude that had been forever intertwined with his destiny.

I returned to the tent, and said, in a quiver that was as matter-of-factly as I could muster it to be, "He's gone! Disapparated!"

However, my heart still stung with what Ron had said, with the utter lovelessness of his last glare. My tears betrayed me, and all bravery forgotten, I curled up into a chair and cried, shamelessly, uncontrollably. I saw Harry through my tear-stricken vision, pick up the Horcrux that Ron had cast away before leaving.

And for a moment, my heart lit up with hope. It was not Ron, it had never been Ron, it had been the Horcrux that had poisoned his mind, his heart. Harry had thrown Ron's blankets over my shaking frame, and I was able to will myself to believe that it had never happened. Ron was there, with me. I could feel his scent wash over me, that characteristic warm minty smell that was Ron's and Ron's alone, the one carried by the fumes of the Amortentia, the scent that to me was that of love itself.

Yes, it was the Horcrux, not Ron.

But before I could bring myself to share this with Harry, all heart had left the words I had meant to utter. I knew too well that it was something within Ron himself that the locket had stirred, something suppressed, but something that was nevertheless there. I knew it to be so. When I myself had experienced those inexplicable bouts of anger while wearing the locket, I had only felt myself flare up at things that did ordinarily annoy me. The same was true for Harry. And the same was true for Ron.

And my tears, that had been undeterred by my attempts to escape on my flights of fancy, continued to pour out of my eyes, soaking the blankets and the dreams I tried to cling to, in vain.

* * *

The rain had stopped and feeble rays of sunshine had begun to pierce through the cloudy mantle, as feeble as the foolish hopes that I tried to reassure myself into feeling. My eyes were exhausted of all the tears they had shed, but the weight of those that were yet to shed continued to weigh down on my eyelids. The pain, I felt, would never leave me. Unless Ron - unless he miraculously somehow found his way back to me. I looked around at the trees, for some sign, some movement, something to prove that it had not all been a lie, that I had not been the biggest idiot on the face of the earth, that my heart had not been thus irreparably shattered.

The rustling I heard had not come from the trees but from the tent. Harry was stirring. I made for the kitchen to prepare breakfast, as though nothing had happened, as though it had always been the two of us in the quest to destroy the Horcruxes, as though Ronald Weasley had never been a part of our lives.

But everything had changed. I could not meet Harry's eyes, none of us could talk to each other. And the storm of emotions, that I thought had been quelled by all those hours of silent sobbing, continued to battle within me in a futile fight for supremacy. My exhausted, battered heart continued to sway between anger and hurt and guilt and hope and love and hatred.


	2. Fragments and Friendship

_Thank you to those who followed/favourited/reviewed! I am new here and was very pleasantly surprised to see people respond to my story so soon._

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Days drudged on, swamped in that inescapable muddle of emotions, each one mingling into the other, until I found myself to be living in a daze – a ghost of an erstwhile self I did not seem to want to remember anymore.

Harry and I had moved out of the woods and pitched our tent on a hillside, which, for all its heather, struck me as despairingly barren, and the conspicuous lack of anything to shield us from my imaginary vultures only heightened my sense of vulnerability. I hated it, I hated what I could see myself becoming.

I was never like this.

In school I had been teased and shunned, for being the teacher's pet, the perpetual show-off, the know-it-all, the bucktoothed, bushy-haired plain Jane… the antithesis in every possible sense to the cool, popular girl. But even though it hurt a little, I always had my parents, ever so proud. Even when the letter from Hogwarts came, threatening to take me away from everything they had ever known, they had been as incredibly supportive as ever. It was their confidence in me that I carried to my new universe, where it became clear after the first few days that I would be just as unpopular as a witch than I had been as a muggle.

And then the unexpected happened: friends. My own true, steadfast, best friends, who liked who I was, just as I was. And Ron, goofy, impetuous Ron, who affected me in ways I had not thought possible. I, the rational, sensible Hermione, had somehow given him so much power as to drive me insanely happy and utterly devastated.

So much so, that when he left, there was nothing left, just as I had thought. There was sunshine, flowers, wild animals, my best friend Harry, but everything was subdued by these strange mists that sapped everything of the meaning that they had once held. The quest itself seemed to have lost all meaning. Harry and I moved from the hillside to the alcove of a cliff, I read, we discussed, hypothesised, wondered and planned ahead. But it was all mechanical. There was nothing left.

I was never like this. If my parents could see me, they would bring me back, remind me that I could not bind my existence to another being in this manner, that there was a larger purpose that I was living for, fighting for, in the perspective of which, Ronald Weasley was a tiny speck of no consequence. But where were my parents? And where was I, now that I had ceased to exist in their memories?

I felt so powerless that I could not even allow my own acute sense of logic to shake me out of my depression. I was flailing in the winds, light-headed. It was not as easy as I had always thought. It was not a matter of being mentally strong. Sometimes you were just… doomed. Like those waves, foaming, furiously rushing towards the jagged rocks. It was beautiful.

Someone was calling out my name, softly at first, then more urgently. Death?

"Hermione… Hermione… HERMIONE!"

He grabbed my hand and pulled me towards him and I realised that I had been at the edge of the cliff, dangerously close to nothingness.

The force with which he pulled me made us both fall to the ground. His heart beneath my wet cheek was pounding as he removed the locket from around my neck. I got up, awkwardly, wanting to reassure him that I could never have been so despicably cowardly as to kill myself, but he had stormed away into the tent, the locket swinging jubilantly from his clenched fist.

Harry's anger was justified. How could I have been so self-absorbed that I lost sight of him, of his suffering, and of our mission, on whose success, the fate of so many people depended. At this precarious stage, how could I have risked it all for someone who could never have truly cared about me. Someone who had hurt me, repeatedly, with practised callousness.

I had forgiven his lapses, as a doting mother figure would. I had elevated his imperfections, adoringly. And foolishly, I had made our relationship about him, about pleasing him, cooking for him, making sure that he never felt insecure. I had led things to a stage where I no longer mattered. It had all been my fault, and what I was doing to myself now, was also something that was well within my control.

I entered the tent. Harry was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his fist held against his forehead.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

He stood up with a start and looked at me, angrily, "Don't tell me it was that damned locket."

"No, it wasn't. It was me. I'm truly very sorry."

He stared at me, speechless. I half-ran to him and threw myself in his embrace, feeling as I did so, all the dark despair within me begin to melt away. After a long time, I was struck by that emotion that I thought only my parents could inspire in me: solace. I smiled, and could feel that he was smiling too.

And from that moment on, the anguished stagnancy that had settled after Ron's departure began to dissipate. There was a renewed sense of hope, and companionship and friendship. There were stolen moments of laughter and joy, and something so precious that even the Horcrux somehow could not contaminate. Yes, there were fights, we snapped at each other ever so often, I being the voice of reason perpetually dampening his reckless ideas. And yes, the infuriating lack of a sense of direction that characterised our quest, constantly bred in us uncertainty and self-doubt. But we had each other, and more importantly, I had myself, once again. My happiness or sense of fulfillment did not depend on another person, but on something deep-seated within me that I had not lost after all.

I felt, strangely enough, free. I did not have to tiptoe around anyone's immaturity. Harry was a strong person too, and we could yell our disagreements each other, we could fume and sulk, and we could both almost simultaneously drop our egos to make peace with one another.

After a long time, I felt that I needed someone just as much as they needed me.


	3. Christmas shrubbery

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I knew that that evening was one that I would always remember fondly.

Several weeks had elapsed and it was nearly Christmas. Harry and I were camping in the countryside near a quaint little village, and the festive spirit was palpable even from the distance of our tent. Occasionally, the faint hum of a carol would reach my ears as I cooked, and I would try to recognise it and sing it to myself.

Our own home of a tent looked no less Christmassy. While I was at the local supermarket, buying ingredients for our dinner, Harry had set up a "Christmas tree" of our own with some piece of shubbery he had found by the riverside, and decorated it with festoons. He could have easily conjured a "proper" tree, but the imperfection of it was heartwarming in a way that a well-sculpted, traditional Christmas tree with its automated feel, could never have been.

I had choked up when I had seen it, and been unable to utter anything other than "oh, nice." But Harry would have understood.

Even though I had resolved, by now, not to think of persons who had left, I could not help but realise in that moment, just how different Ron's reaction would have been. He would have scoffed at the tree, perhaps grumbled about Christmas celebrations at The Burrow. It was not his fault - he was just... different. His family had always been somewhat short of means and he had grown to resent it - the secondhand clothes, the feeling of never getting what he really wanted, and more generally, having to constantly compete with his siblings for attention. Being happy with little, came easier for me, for I had never been so attached to material possessions to begin with (well, barring books), and for Harry, who had grown up in such abject neglect that the smallest of kindnesses meant a great deal to him.

Despite my anger towards him, I had to accept that Ron was who he was. And making him grow up or feel better about himself could not be some project or challenge of mine, the failure of which would reflect a lacking on my part. In fact, as I had grown to understand myself better, it had only become increasingly poignant that no amount of effort on my part could change how fundamentally incompatible we were. If I had to tweak my personality to the extent that I could not be happy myself, how could I ever make him happy.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I had been unable to understand him just as much as he had been unable to understand me. Even though I had forgiven him I could never come to terms with why he had ever gone out with Lavender at all. Nor could I truly understand his jealousy, insecurities, and his antagonism towards Harry when he knew full well that Harry was just as lost as we were. In the end, it seemed, we had both really only been alone together.

I figured that he would be at The Burrow now, hopefully celebrating Christmas the way he liked it, just as I was.

The meal was almost ready. Spaghetti bolognaise and tinned pears for dessert.

Harry was very vocal in his appreciation, and even though he almost always had something good to say about whatever I cooked, I felt myself beam and blush at his words and found myself having to avert my face so he wouldn't notice. It felt slightly strange to me then, that I was so conscious all of a sudden, but I brushed away the thought as soon as it came to my mind. Harry had suggested that none of us wear the locket for a few hours, and I had no intention of marring that feeling of weightlessness by overthinking everything.

After dinner, I was reading _The Tales of Beetle the Bard_ yet again, trying to find something, any tiny little sign to point us in the right direction, or to any direction really. So much time had gone by... people were being tortured, killed, and living in fear and despair... and we had no major accomplishments to speak of, other than having one Horcrux we could not destroy. And well, managing to stay hidden and alive.

There were times where I could not help but share Harry's annoyance towards Professor Dumbledore, for leaving us with so little to go on. But I did not have the luxury of being as expressive as he was - someone had to be the rational one.

And it struck me. There was a sign, quite literally so. The symbol of the circle inside a triangle. It was no Rune. I feverishly double-checked this with my syllabary. No, it had definitely been inked in. Finally, something. I got up at once. Harry!

He was already standing near the armchair, waiting to casually suggest that we go to Godric's Hollow. If the matter at hand had not been so serious, I would have smiled at how adorable it was that he should treat me as a teacher around whom he had to tread carefully. In any case, though, he was right. It made perfect logical sense. Godric's Hollow, Godric Griffindor, Griffindor's sword. Professor Dumbledore could very well have kept the real Griffindor sword there for Harry to find, perhaps entrusted to Bathilda Bagshot.

Of course I knew the real reason why Harry wanted to go, without him having to say so. I knew that for him, Godric's Hollow was not a mere means to the end of our quest, it was the place that he associated with his parents, with the beginning and end to everything that he was... with what could have been, in a happier alternate universe. It had been excruciatingly hard for me to repeatedly turn him down earlier, but I had to. For some inexplicable reason, I felt that Professor Dumbledore would have wanted me to play that role. And so, even as, under the cover of my apparent confidence, I battled against the mind-boggling question of what if I was wrong and unnecessarily slowing Harry down, I was able to trust my intuition. And my intuition told me that Professor Dumbledore had been cryptic on purpose. There was a time for everything.

And for more reasons than one, the time seemed right to agree, for once, with Harry, as we stood by our little Christmas tree, with nobody but each other to hold on to. He deserved this one. I could think of nothing that could have made his eyes twinkle so excitedly.


	4. Godric's Hollow

"On the count of three," I said, handing the flask of Polyjuice Potion to Harry. A fleeting image crossed my mind, of the three of us during our first encounter with the potion, in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, wondering if we were facing death, or worse, eternal Slytherinhood. I dismissed the painful memory. It was just the two of us - Harry and I, currently disguised as the two middle-aged muggles, whose hair we had surreptitiously obtained in the village.

Harry held out a wrinkled hand and cast the invisibility cloak over the two of us. This was it. After all those plans and practice runs, we were finally going to Godric's Hollow.

An instant later, we had apparated on a snow-carpeted path, glowing with the light of fireplaces and Christmas trees shining from behind frosted windows.

"Welcome home," I whispered.

Harry turned towards me, surprised, "Is that why you agreed that we..."

His question trailed away into silence as my smile conveyed the answer he perhaps already knew.

"Merry Christmas, Harry."

He returned the smile, his eyes betraying a faint glisten, as he said, "I am really glad that you are here with me."

"You do know that the main reason why we're here is still the sword, right?" I quipped.

"You do know that I still love you, right?"

And I don't know why, even though I knew that he meant "love" in the same sense that I signed my letters with "love," in the sense in which we love friends and pets and chocolates and great books, I allowed the words to echo in my mind a few times after he had uttered them, like I wanted to preserve in my memory his exact words, voice, intonation. And of course I knew I was being most irrational. And yet...

I frowned at myself. This was Harry. Of course we loved each other - we were the best of friends. But that was certainly no reason to ruin what we shared, with cheesy overtones.

I looked at Harry, anxious, but he did not seem to have noticed my change in composure. He was looking at the Church to our left, a stately stone building, within which a choir could be heard singing. It was Christmas eve. And then it struck me.

"Harry? They - they'll be in there, won't they? Your mum and dad. I can see the graveyard behind it."

I felt Harry inhale, and saw the vulnerability settle in his eyes. But there was no way around it - there could be no way for him to feel as close to his parents as he wished, without immersing himself in the acute pain that this inevitably meant. I held his hand and led him towards the Church. He did not resist, but I could feel his steps getting heavier with dread, and my own resolve weakening.

Before I had met Harry on the Hogwarts Express in my first year, he had been somewhat of a fiction, fascinatingly so. I had equated him, to his name in the books I had read, to what he symbolised for the wizarding world. And yet he was a person beneath it all, and once he had become the friend I had come to know and cherish, it had been so easy to lose sight of his painful beginnings.

But as we stood in the square, before the statues of Lily and James Potter and their unscarred, unscathed baby Harry, it became poignantly inescapable that my friend Harry was after all that same Harry Potter who had barely begun to live when Voldemort had marked him out for an existence of agonising solitude.

How could he be so good, so selfless when he had endured so much, first, at the hands of his cruel relatives, and then seeing the people closest to him, die, one by one, as though ticked off a list. It had been so easy, with time, to normalise it all. But how could it be normal, how could it be fair, that one person should have so much to bear.

"C'mon," he said, looking away from the statues towards the graveyard.

I was the first to find them, the graves of Lily and James Potter, and I called out to him, my voice shaking.

And there we stood, for the longest of times, silently, grasping each others' hands, as he allowed the tears to fall freely from his eyes. I knew they would have been proud of him, the compassionate, courageous young man before them. I knew they _were_ proud... The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death... They had not been killed, they had bravely submitted to death to protect the ones they loved, and they would be living beyond the end of their mortal remains, somewhere within Harry himself.

It was this heartwrenchingly sad, strangely beautiful love, that I witnessed then, that brought tears to my own eyes. I conjured a wreath of Christmas roses and lilies. Harry caught it and knelt at their graves. It was a small thing to do, but I poured in everything I had felt in that moment into it. What else was there that I could have done.

Harry stood up. His lips curled into a faint, watery smile as he flicked away my tears with his finger. Then he cast his arm around me, and we turned to make our way out of the graveyard.

And despite myself, I could not help but think of Ron in that moment. How easy it had been for him to lash out at Harry for having no family. There was no excuse. There could have been no excuse for such hateful words, not even the fact that Ron had been concerned then about his own family. In an instant, in just a few words, he had alienated Harry from the only people whom he had thought of as his own family.

In the anger that had suddenly come over me, I found myself thankful that Ron had left, that he wasn't there to sully this moment with his insensitivity. I almost hoped that he would not find his way back to us. A part of me knew that I was unnecessarily exaggerating Ron's faults, conveniently overlooking the fact that he was a friend of Harry's too, that surely, he regretted his words and was extremely ashamed of his behaviour.

But an odd emotion seemed to have overwhelmed me, obliterating all possibility of rationality. It was beyond protectiveness... it seemed more like... possessiveness. The feeling was entirely alien to me, for, not even during the Ron-Lavender saga, had I felt possessive and jealous. If anything, I had been hurt at the way I was being treated. This, this fierceness... was completely different. It was almost as though I wanted to capture those prized moments of Harry and I, alone together, shielding them away from the rest of the world, as eternities swept past us enviously.

Maybe it was protectiveness after all, I decided. I had just helplessly watched as my friend wept at his parents' grave; anyone else was bound to feel the way that I did.


	5. Frenzy

And everything went terribly wrong, with dizzying rapidity.

My heart was pounding even before I realised what was happening. I knew - just knew that it had been a mistake to allow Harry to follow Bathilda Bagshot upstairs, all by himself. I was straining my ears for some sound, for Harry's voice at least, but all I heard were faint footsteps occasionally punctuating the eerie silence that hung heavily upon the air.

And then, a dull thud from the first floor. I looked in the direction of the sound, and called out "Harry?"

Nothing.

I sprinted up the stairs, my wand held out, feeling as though all the air had been sucked out of my lungs, and the first thing I saw was Voldemort's gigantic snake standing in the doorway lunging to strike at me. I screamed and ducked, and saw an explosion of shattered glass as my deflected curse hit the window. Harry was lying on the floor, but getting back on his feet. There was blood, but from where it was flowing, I could not tell.

I cast a stunning spell at the snake and I felt the spell singe through the air as it hit the animal, causing it to thrash around the room in wild fury.

Then, Harry's voice, panic-stricken, "He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!"

He seized me and pulled me towards him and we ran across the room to avoid the snake, possibly more dangerous than ever. And then we were cornered, we jumped over the bed, the snake's tail missed my face by an inch, and we leapt away, rolled away.

The whole while, Harry's words were echoing in my ears. Voldemort was coming.

"Confringo!" I yelled, and the spell ricocheted off the walls and mirrors, destroying everything in its wake, sending splinters of wood and glass everywhere, confusing the snake for a second.

And in that second, Harry and I had leapt from the window and disapparated, just as Voldemort ran into the room and let out a blood-curdling scream.

* * *

"Harry! Harry, listen to me, you will be okay, everything will be okay! It's alright! Just stay still, please." I shrieked hysterically, trying to clean the gaping wound on his forearm with dittany, hoping, praying, that there was a part of him could hear my voice. But although the Polyjuice potion's effects had worn off and Harry looked like himself again, I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. The light seemed to have left his green eyes, and been engulfed by a sinister force, that cast a shadow across his entire face. He was looking at me... no, through me with blazing, contemptuous rage, his entire frame convulsing.

And then he whispered, his voice cold and mocking, "Stand aside, you silly girl. Stand aside now." He had another convulsion, this one so violent, that I was thrown a few feet away as I tried to hold him still. His mouth was beginning to foam, and none of my calming spells were working.

And then I saw it shine through his ripped shirt, the locket. Harry was still wearing it. I ran to him frantically and tried to yank it off. But it was stuck, feverishly hot, pulsating wildly like a little heart. My hands shaking, I cast a severing charm and cut the piece of skin from his chest that the horcrux appeared to have fused with. I grabbed the horcrux and threw it aside. It hissed angrily as it hit the forest floor.

It seemed to have worked. Harry's eyes were shut, and he had calmed down somewhat, although he was still shaking and perspiring, as he mumbled through laboured breaths.

I set up our tent and continued to clean his wounds, my rapidly falling tears mingling with his blood and the potions I was administering. It physically hurt, constricted my heart within the deep recesses of my being, to see him in so much pain before me. Possibly because of me. We should never have gone to Godric's Hollow, or trusted Bathilda Bagshot, or followed her. I should not have left Harry alone.

"I'm sorry, Harry," I sobbed, as I sponged his face, repeating his name again and again, willing him to come back. But he continued to convulse and shudder, his entire body covered in cold sweat, as though trapped in an unending nightmare that made him shout out in agony from time to time. His hands and feet had begun to move around in mad frenzy once again, as I tried to shift him onto his bunk. Finally I had to use a hover charm to lift him, but the comfort of the covers did nothing to assuage his torment. I stared at him, powerlessly, fervently hoping that there was a way that I could share some of his pain, all of his pain, that somehow I could be in his place, that he, for once, could be at peace.

The words tore themselves out of my heart, flowed out into my tears, before I heard them, or could stop them, "I love you, I love you so much, Harry. I love you so much."

And without thinking, I settled myself in the nook of his arm and wrapped my arms around his trembling frame, as tightly, as fiercely as I could, with a strength that I had not known until then that I could possess. I would let no harm befall him, I said to myself, repeatedly, agitatedly, as I held on to him that night, in the same way that one held on to life itself. After some time, I felt his breathing begin to stabilise.

* * *

I did not realise when I had fallen asleep, but when my eyes opened, they met with Harry's, tranquil green once again.

"Harry," I said, my heart bursting with overwhelming gratitude, "are you - are you alright?"

"Yes," he replied softly, his eyes continuing to pierce into mine, with a strange intensity, as though trying to convey something or read something. I realised where I was, and lowered my eyes as my words began to fumble out a justification. Yes, of course there was one. He was in so much agony and it was the only way I could think of to calm him down.

But my perfectly reasoned explanation had barely been completed, when he leaned in closer to me, breathing heavily. Our foreheads were touching. His was warm and slightly sweaty. My heart was racing, and I was not thinking. I could not think. I felt light-headed, content. The feeling was intoxicating. I did not want anything, other than for the moment to last forever. I breathed, and felt his breaths mingle with mine.

Gently, he placed his soft lips on mine and stole a kiss. A short one-second kiss. So gently, as though afraid he might hurt me. He pulled away, his breath still on mine, and looked into my eyes, uncertainly. Then his lips touched mine again.

I don't know what happened next. All I know is that I had never felt giddy from a kiss before. I had never lost myself in the moment, lost all ability to reason and think. Intimacy had never felt so natural, so right. I don't know what happened next.. Maybe he planted another test peck on my lips and perhaps another after that, before he gave in completely. Or maybe it was after that first kiss, and that burning gaze that he felt he could not stop himself any longer. We were kissing with uninhibited passion, his entire body weight was on mine.

I could not think. At first I did not want to. And then when I tried to think, the only thoughts that came to me was what his hands were doing, as they wandered over me, and then my brain snapped back into motion again. No, it was wrong, too fast. He was not mine. This was wrong.

But I could not stop kissing him. It was as though I knew that I would never be able to kiss him again. All we had was that one moment. He broke the kiss, looked at me. There were too many thoughts were running through my mind. I could not tell what he was thinking. I could not tell what I was thinking. I could not understand anything. Perhaps he understood, or perhaps not... but he hugged me tightly, protectively, with gratitude, with sadness, happiness, with every single feeling that he could own. I was getting intoxicated again, by the way he smelled and sounded as he breathed down my neck. I had never felt so close to anyone before, as though I knew their every heartbeat and they knew mine.

We parted slowly, reluctantly, and inevitably, started kissing again. And once again, I lost track of my thoughts. Until finally, I forced myself to face the truth: Ginny, who loved him so much, who was waiting for him. Disgusted at myself, I detached myself from him and ran outside.


	6. Always

_I believe some of the story's followers may have missed Chapter 5 because last week I uploaded 2 chapters on the same day. So if you haven't already, please read the previous chapter :) _

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I had to stop trying to make sense of what had happened back in the tent before it drove away my sanity. All my theories had failed in the most abysmal fashion, everything I had thought I knew about myself had been put to test.. no amount of logic and reasoning could help me understand how and why that inexplicable pull had acted upon the two of us in the way that it had.

But this much I knew for sure, that from my side at least, it was the most real thing I had ever felt in my life. I felt at peace in a way that should have been impossible, given all the conflicting emotions running through me. And yet that is what it was - peace. Despite the gnawing guilt that I felt, because of Ginny and to some extent, Ron too, I knew I was smiling through my tears. I realised that my reminiscences were not rooted in some futile attempt at forcing reason onto what could not be rationalised. I was actually getting myself to relive the moment.

I am possibly the worst authority on love. But surely, what I felt for Harry - that wildly uncontrollable, selfish, shameless kind of a feeling - was not friendship. It was something that, strangely enough, did not require any form of reciprocation to be validated. It was just... there, in defiance of all definitions. For someone as habitually confident as myself, oddly enough, I would have gone to the extent to say that I had never been surer of anything as I was regarding my feelings for Harry.

And yet I also knew what Ginny meant to Harry, how difficult it had been for him to break up with her to keep her safe, how difficult it was, now, to stay away from her, not knowing in what state she might be, having to strain his ears at every contact with the wizarding world, for some news that was remotely connected to her.

Was I then, nothing more than a substitute for Ginny? Had it all been nothing more than an expression of unbearable loneliness? The thought hurt me in a way that tears could not convey, and that stabbing blinding pain that somewhere in the deep recesses of my being, reverberated in the way that, possibly, only truth can.

A tentative hand on my shoulder. Harry. He sat down next to me.

"You okay?" he asked.

I was not crying. I think I looked okay. But my words had gotten entangled into each other and into that constriction of strangled tears in my throat. What could I have said, really? I could not even bring myself to meet his eyes, lest they should spell a confirmation of my fears.

"Hermione," he said again, his voice pained, "You're very special to me. You're the nicest person ever - you - beyond everything that everyone thinks they know about you, you are just the nicest, kindest person. I don't want to lose you... but I feel that I have already, that nothing will be as it was before. I'm really sorry Hermione. I cannot bear to see you upset, and now because of me -"

"I'm not upset, really."

I wasn't sure it was a lie... at that point in time, I really didn't know what it was that I was feeling. The only thought that I could decipher from the quagmire I was submerged in, was that I had found something infinitely precious and almost instantly lost it too. And yet what right did I have to be upset?

I must have not sounded as convincing as I had hoped, for he spoke again, "Tell me what I could do to make everything okay again. Please. This is all my fault, I started - I'm sorry."

I hastened to look at him, feeling suffocated by my own silence, "No, No... I - it wasn't you, I mean, I also felt... something. I wanted to."

Yes, it was not his fault. Who else could I blame but myself, for having developed such strong feelings, for pushing myself in a situation that could only end in having my stupid heart broken. What had he done other that allow himself to get swept away in the moment.

"I wanted to as well," he said quietly.

"Why?" I asked, my heart pounding.

"I don't know. In that moment, it felt right. I did not think. I just saw you, there, sleeping, and the way you looked at me when you woke up - I knew what I had put you through. I could see it in your eyes - the concern, the everything. And I felt... so much... love for you, I felt like I had to give you everything, it's like I had to - I just did not think. But now I feel like maybe it was a mistake. Only because it's you. I respect you and love you so much, and in a way, I know I hurt you. No matter what you say. And I feel like everything's changed. And, because you're feeling bad, I'm also - it's, it's killing me. You mean so much to me. I cannot lose you. I don't know what I'd do."

It was a long speech, especially for Harry. I was lost for words. Did this mean that in that moment, I was - me? Not the one who happened to be there, as he was missing Ginny? But how could it be? I was just... just Hermione. Wasn't I?

"I'm not feeling bad," I said finally, "I'm just - confused."

"Has our - friendship... what we have, has it been lost forever?"

"No, of course not. I'll always be there for you. You are - We'll go back to how things were before. Nothing will change, don't worry. I just need time to process everything."

"Take as much time as you want. But please, please tell me if you want to talk."

I nodded.

After some time, he spoke again, "Hermione, can I ask you something, is one of the reasons why you - is it because... do you... love him?"

"What? Oh. No, I don't... Honestly I don't think I ever did. I realised this a while ago... And do you? I mean... you know... Ginny."

As soon as I had said her name, I felt like the weight of the world had collapsed on my shoulders.

He was quiet for a whole minute before he answered, his green eyes blazing into mine, with intensity and a painful tinge of sadness.

"I... I respect you too much to lie to you, Hermione, but the truth is, I don't know about love. I feel... responsible for her, towards her. I care for her, but I... Does that make sense?"

"It does," I smiled warmly, "you're a good person, Harry. That's what makes you so different, so special. Don't worry about me, about us. Things will figure themselves out. And I promise you everything will be back to normal, nothing will change the friendship that we share. It was just - a moment. And it will always be very, very special to me."

And we sat there for a long time, under the perforated canopy of the evergreen trees, barely feeling the burning cold, silently drawing comfort from each other. There was no need to say anything anymore. There were more conversations in our togetherness then, than could have been translated into words. He knew, I knew.

After a while, we got back to discussing what had happened at Godric's Hollow. I told him about how his wand had been broken beyond repair, and saw and felt the sense of defeat that this news brought him. To say that he was devastated would be an understatement. But I believed in him - wand or no wand, victory would be his. Even if he could not see it, I did. As clear as day. His goodness and sincerity would win.

I decided I would never let him know that a part of my heart was burdened with aching sadness. Because, truly, there was another, more important part of me, that was overwhelmingly proud that someone like him was a part of my life. I knew that once the mission would be over, and we would go back to everyone, he to Ginny, things would change. There was no way that we could just stay there, in the Forest of Dean, grow old together.

But I also knew that I would always love him, no matter what.


	7. Afresh, anew

"Hermione," Harry called softly, a few times.

I woke up with a start. It was still dark outside. Harry was deathly pale, and there were icicles intertwined in the locks of hair stuck to his forehead.

"What's wrong, Harry? Are you alright?" I asked, alarmed. There was an odd, undecipherable mixture of expressions clouding his face.

"There's someone here," he muttered, with an unconvincing appearance of neutrality.

Ron was standing in the tent, a few feet away, looking embarrassed and apprehensive.

I could say nothing. All the anger that I should have felt, all those livid words I had been rehearsing to myself - nothing came out. I could not identify with any of those feelings anymore. They seemed like they belonged to a faraway dream that had slowly been trickling away to near-oblivion.

"Hermione," he said, "I'm really sorry. I behaved like a complete... arse. I shouldn't have - Please - please say something."

"Why are you here?" I said finally. It was the only thing I could think of.

"I'm going to keep watch," Harry said quietly, leaving the tent.

There was a long pause, while my question continued to echo in the tent. I knew how shocking my reaction would have been to Ron. He had probably expected me to lash out at him, attack him with canaries, as I had once done. But that other Hermione had gone adrift somewhere, somewhere perhaps in the numbness that I felt.

"I've come back to be with you... to be... a part of our quest. I've missed you."

And suddenly, in the unbearable silence that followed, all the hurt that I had been suppressing without even realising it, began to flow out of my eyes.

Ron was back. Our precious trio was complete once again. There would once again be wisecracks and silly pranks and laughter and moments of light-heartedness punctuating our sombre, perilous existence. After so many days of blinkering myself off from his qualities, all the memories I had been refusing to acknowledge came flooding back. And the gaping hole that had been left in our lives by Ron's departure became poignant once again.

"You have no idea how hurt we were -" I started, in a strangled voice.

"I do," he whispered, regret glistening in his eyes, "I know. And Harry told me. I am truly very sorry."

"What did Harry say?"

"He was... he was really mad at me. He said that I had no business coming back after what I had put you through... that despite everything that you had done for me, all the times you had forgiven me, I was an inconsiderate git who had never been able to value you as much as you deserved. I reckon he was right."

"You reckon?" I said bitterly, even though I could see how genuinely repentant he was, "I was waiting, Ron, hoping hope against hope. And Harry? Do you even know how pained he was by what you had said? How could you? I know you were losing hope, I know that locket was affecting you. But the way you behaved - And you only decided to show up now, after more than a month?"

"No, I wanted to come back as soon as I had disapparated. I realised what a huge mistake I had made. But I was captured by Snatchers. And when I managed to escape, I had no idea how to find you..."

Ron's words were becoming fainter, fading away into deafening silence. He explained how, with the help of Professor Dumbledore's Deluminator, he had managed to find his way back, how he had waited for days for Harry or I to appear, how he had finally seen Harry, how the Horcrux had finally been destroyed. But the meaning of his earnest words barely reached me. They were just sounds that I was mindlessly nodding to. Sounds, that were getting lost in the cacophony of the thoughts reverberating in my pounding mind.

What kind of person was I? How could I have found it so easy to fall in love with Harry? Ron had been right after all, even if he hadn't known it then. I _had_ chosen Harry, hadn't I? I knew it would destroy him if he knew; it would destroy everything we were holding onto.

How could I could lie to him though? I had to tell him just how much had changed in his absence, how much I had changed as I had begun to understand my own feelings better. Yet, what could I possibly tell him? There was no name to what Harry and I had shared. It was just a moment - albeit a moment that had transformed me - after which we had decided nothing would change our friendship.

But everything _had_ changed. How could the three of us possibly go back to being the friends we had once been? The serenity that had washed over me after I had realised what Harry meant to me, was paling away in the blinding starkness of the reality before me. There had been so much more involved beyond just the two of us in our protected little world. That I should even attempt to hide the truth from Ron was unacceptable, but it seemed like a lesser evil, compared to what all our lives - including Ginny's - would be plunged into, if I decided to be true to myself, and truthful to him. And all that for what? What was there between Harry and I, in the end?

Nothing.

I wrenched my mind away from the dizzying thoughts threatening to engulf me.

"Hermione," Ron was saying, "I promise I'll make it up to you. I'll make everything okay once again."

If anything, the guilt reflected in his moist eyes only made me feel worse about myself.

"Harry," I said, the name, like a sigh, escaping my lips before I could stop it. I continued, somewhat incoherently, "I mean, he's still outside... You guys should probably get some sleep. I can keep watch."

"Yeah," he replied, seeming slightly disoriented by my response, "I'll call him."

In the few minutes that I was alone in the tent, I composed myself.

Even if I could not give him the reason, I would have to break up with Ron. I was perhaps a selfish person, but I could not be deceitful. I knew it would cause him pain but I would do everything in my power to make sure it did not affect our friendship in any way.

And I had to stop tormenting myself with whatever was or was not there between Harry and I, with whether he loved me or not. There was an important mission weighing over us - none of us could afford to be distracted, when so many lives depended on whether we succeeded or not. In light of the responsibility that we all bore, everything else - including my own breaking heart - was of little significance. There would be another time perhaps, when Voldemort would have been defeated and the mists of fear and despair would have been lifted from the hearts of people. Then, perhaps, there would be time enough for such trivialities.

When Harry entered the tent with Ron, his eyes immediately connected with mine. I gave him a small reassuring smile in response. I had forgiven Ron. Whether or not I would ever be able to forgive myself, was another question, for another day.

"Ron saved my life, you know," Harry said, breaking the awkward silence.

"Really?" I asked, fighting back a smile.

"Always the tone of surprise," Ron replied automatically, choking up.

We barely slept that night. There was so much to discuss, to fill each other in about. After a long time, the tent was alive with animated discussions once again. And even though there was no Horcrux to burden us, I felt that even if there was one, it would not have been able to take away the tenderness of that reunion and renewed friendship from us.

Besides, Ron had changed, matured. I doubted whether a Horcrux would have affected him in the way that it had earlier. Although the boys had glossed over the details of how the Horcrux in the locket had been destroyed by Ron, I suspected that that piece of Voldemort's soul was not the only thing to have disappeared that night.


	8. Winds of Change

I could hardly have expected a smooth resolution to things. Since when did life's outcomes follow the neat algorithms I charted out in my mind anyway? And now that matters of the heart were concerned, things could barely have been less predictable. Still, I thought I had covered all the bases when I expected Ron to be resentful, angry, sad, shocked, or somehow, miraculously, okay with the idea of us breaking up.

What I had not foreseen during the frantic ramblings of my mind that had preceded our conversation, however, was that he should decide to simply not believe me when I said that I did not love him.

"Hermione," he had said, "I get it, you're angry, you're upset. You really don't have to forgive me until you feel up to it. I will wait, for however long it takes."

No, no, no, I wanted to scream out. I did not want him to wait. I wanted him to understand that we could not, never, ever be together again, as anything more than friends.

But Ron's newfound sense of confidence dampened the frustration with which I wanted to lash out at him and shake the truth into him.

His own inner demons had somehow been vanquished along with the Horcrux. Somehow he had lost the bitterness and jealousy that had tended to obscure his better qualities; he had grown into the person I had always wanted him to be, the person he had always been under all those insecurities.

On the one hand, I could not be more fiercely proud, and I wished with every fibre of my being, that I would not be the person who would give validation to his former disgruntled self, who would force him once again into the depths of resentfulness. But I also knew too well that I had perhaps already become that person.

I tried once again to explain him, without mentioning Harry's name, and all it did was to bring out that infuriating sensitive side of Ron once more. If I did not know better, I would have thought that he was playing a cruel prank on me. If not him, then surely it must have been life's idea of a sick joke.

"It's okay," he said, "we'll take a break, to think about... stuff, um, like, figure things out."

"What is wrong with you?" I replied, more out of shock than anything else, "I'm considering interrogating you to rule out Polyjuice."

"I missed you, Hermione," he said, his voice strangled, "More than you can ever know. I have regretted my behaviour every single day. And it gave me a lot of time to think. So, I... I reckon, it turns out my emotional range is slightly more than a teaspoon."

I let out a short laugh, in spite of myself, and managed to feel more terrible about myself than I thought was humanly possible. If only he was the moody, immature Ron that he had once been.

"So, a break it is, right?" Ron said, and as I began to protest, he added sadly, "You can make it a breakup later."

But the hope did not leave his eyes.

And in that moment, I wished I had never realised that I loved Harry so deeply, I wished that love was not so uncontrollable, so selfish. And of course, reality happily defied such wishes. Because clearly, my heart had reason-baffling reasons of its own, and and an unyielding obstinacy to boot.

Meanwhile, I slowly came to realise that Harry's behaviour had changed too. At first I thought it was the joy of finally having his best mate at his side. Then I thought that he was probably still annoyed that I had accidentally broken his wand and he was having to manage with the blackthorne that Ron had given him.

But I gradually noticed that Harry and Ron were not just spending time together because that was what they had always done while I was poring over books. I was not imagining it - Harry was actively avoiding me, barely even allowing his eyes to meet with mine. And although I did not know the reason, I knew that this was not about the wand.

It was a most peculiar feeling. It was heartache of a most disorienting nature, because there was so much confusion mingled with sadness. I realised that I just did not know how to deal with a situation like this.

While Ron and I had so often been at each other's throats, Harry and I had never really not been on talking terms. Except, perhaps, for that one time when I had caused his Firebolt to be confiscated by Professor McGonagall in our third year. But at least then, I had known that I was probably right, and I had expected Harry to be angry from the very start.

This time, I just could not bring myself to understand his sudden change in behaviour, and I found that, for some reason, I could not confront him about it. It was as though I ought to have known that things would come to this. It was a strange helpless sort of misery that made me lonelier than I could have felt in spite of being in the midst of all the liveliness that Ron's arrival had brought with it.

I took to burying myself in books to escape the constant yearning that I felt. If only it could be that easy! Harry's absence was all the more poignantly conspicuous because he was physically present after all. He was there at mealtimes, at our discussions, in the next bunk. His voice was there. The occasional quiet laugh he would share with Ron was there. And yet he was so distant. The words in the pages would swim before my tear-filled eyes, meaningless outlines in ink merging into each other, until I could barely remember which book it was that I was reading.

I steeled myself. I had decided that my happiness would not depend on another being, I could not allow myself to become dependent once again. Books had never failed me, and there was no reason why they ever would. I channeled my pain into a highly satisfying bout of anger against Harry, Ron and the whole lot of them, and frowned resolutely at the book that lay open in my hands. It was Rita Skeeter's _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. _Ever since I had gotten my hands on it at Godric's Hollow, it had become somewhat of an obsession. Not that I believed for one second, that that fraud would have condescended for once to write truthfully, without her trademark scandalous extrapolations. But I had an inexplicable intuition that anything even remotely connected with Professor Dumbledore held the power to dispel the uncertainty we found ourselves in.

Within an hour or so, I had found it, the same sign, in the copy of a letter sent by Professor Dumbledore to Grindelwald - that symbol of a sliced circle inside a triangle. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together, we just needed to find the few missing pieces.

I walked up to the boys, my heart pounding with the feeling that something was happening, we were getting somewhere.

"We need to talk," I said to Harry.

A fleeting shadow crossed his face - something that seemed to resemble panic.

"What?" he asked apprehensively. As though he expected me to bring up something he did not want to talk about. But the unreasonable anger I felt towards him had not abated. I would not give him that satisfaction of knowing how hurt I was, of knowing that I had even noticed his change in behaviour.

"I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood," I replied coldly.

"Sorry?" he said, clearly taken aback.

I showed him and Ron the symbol I had found in the book, and explained my hunch that Luna's father would know what the symbol meant.

I strived to keep our conversation purely functional and kept up the spectacular pretence that I had built up around me as we walked up to Mr Lovegood's and discussed with him the subject of the Deathly Hallows. I kept it up even as we narrowly escaped the death eaters' attack by disapparating from the Lovegoods' cottage just in time.

I knew all along that my anger had no rational basis, and that it was probably just a defence mechanism. But it was just as well. Nobody would ever break my heart again.


	9. Between us

On our return from visiting Xenophilius Lovegood, even though we had (once again) found ourselves a hair's breadth away from the hands of death eaters, Harry seemed to have been imbibed with renewed vigour. It was unnerving how the knowledge of the Deathly Hallows had managed to completely divert his mind away from our quest for Horcruxes. It was scary even, the glint of obsession that appeared in his eyes when he insisted, so confidently, that it was in the Deathly Hallows that our hope of defeating Voldemort lay.

It was wrong, it had to be wrong. Why would Professor Dumbledore have placed us on the path to find Horcruxes if the true goal was to be found in the Deathly Hallows? We were wandering away from the path, we were falling into a trap - an obvious red herring. Even if there was such a thing as the Deathly Hallows, even then, how could it possibly help us against Voldemort who could not be killed unless all the pieces of his soul were found and destroyed? How would it help Harry if he somehow became the Master of Death, when Voldemort himself could not be directly killed? If anything, it could be a way to buy time. But we could not afford to waste time by straying away from the most logical route of our mission.

I could not understand why Harry could not see it as clearly as I did. He was behaving as though it was the most obvious answer ever. He responded to my reasoning with overly convenient theories to support his hunch - that his cloak was one of the Hallows, for example. Despite the annoyance that I still harboured against him, I relentlessly continued to pull him away from the inane idea of the Deathly Hallows.

I knew that I was more likely to be right than he was. The easiness with which Harry was able to drop everything to change the course of our quest altogether, was - dangerous. It seemed that all those months of isolation, of being cooped up in hiding, with so few results to show for it, had taken a toll on Harry. He was becoming restless, reckless. It would not be the first time. Two years ago, when Voldemort had planted in his mind a vision of Sirius being tortured, he was ready to rush straight away to the Ministry. He had been exasperated that I felt we needed to double-check if Sirius was really in danger. But I had been right, hadn't I?

Maybe he mocked me, maybe they mocked me - he and Ron - for being the rule-abiding, woefully unadventurous person that I appeared to be. I could not deny that it stung - that feeling of acute loneliness. It was all the more painful because this was Harry, whom I loved in a way that went beyond words and the world itself... this was Harry whose name I had unconsciously, conspiringly been whispering to my heart, making it swell with a warm glow. It was all the more painful because with every argument that we had, those excruciating distances between us widened even more.

But I had never been one to abandon who I was to please others. If I had to be the unpopular one, I would be. It mattered more in this time to be right. I would not drop my stance, even if every glare of Harry's threatened to bring tears to my eyes. The issue at hand was much broader than the two of us. There was too much at stake. The radio that Ron had finally managed to set to the _Potterwatch_ programme, was blaring with the news of mass murders, unexplained disappearances. We had to destroy the Horcruxes, there could be no other choice. Harry stood for hope, the only, the last hope that people still held onto. We had no right to go astray.

And maybe, some day, when my heart would have been completely spent, he would understand me.

"Good, eh?" Ron said, happily, interrupting my thoughts. The programme had ended. I recognised the triumphant look in Harry's eyes - he had found something to support his inane Deathly Hallows theory.

"He's abroad!" Harry was saying, "He's still looking for the wand, I knew it!"

"Harry -" I started, wearily.

"Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined to not admit it? Vol -"

"HARRY, NO!" Ron yelled.

But Harry had already completed saying Voldemort's name, forgetting in his excitement, that it was Tabboo - their way of tracking down those who were resisting Voldemort. It was too late. The Sneakoscope was spinning; voices could be heard. They had found us. There was no escape.

Everything that followed happened too fast. Even though Harry had been disfigured by my stinging hex, it had not been enough to ward off the Snatchers' suspicion. Before we knew it, we were in Malfoy Manor, facing Bellatrix Lestrange, with an insane, depraved hunger shadowing her face, as she eyed me, singling me out for torture.

It was pain beyond anything I could have ever imagined. It was pain that numbed every thought that I could think of, and also pain that made me aware of every single pulsating pore of my body, as it was being singed, stabbed, crippled, torn, sliced, hammered. I forced myself to think as I gasped for air, for life. No, I would not beg for death, I would not scream, I decided. But I could hear screams and sobs that sounded like mine. I was hallucinating. All my nightmares were coming to life. None of it was real, I decided. I forced my eyes open to shoot her a look of defiance, of hatred. But I could not see her. All I could hear was her maniacal laughter, as she shot me curse after curse.

Then she stopped, and I felt relief flow shamelessly from my eyes. She asked me about the sword. I did not answer. She asked again. I lied. She sent for someone and pointed her wand at me again.

My body was on fire again. I could not remember where I was, who I was. Hermione, I said to myself repeatedly. But the name did not seem familiar. I was pain. I was the laughter ringing in the air. I was laughing. This is delirium, I told myself sternly. It will stop, I told myself sternly. But what if it did not? I thought of Neville's parents, tortured to insanity. What if? I forced my thoughts back to Neville. The Griffindor Tower. I was a Griffindor. I would not give up. Or at least I would die for a cause. Maybe I had already died. Surely I had died. I was floating in the air. My parents were with me. They knew me. And then my head hit the stone floor again. Something cracked. Something warm, salty and sticky was flowing from my mouth. Blood. The chandelier was reeling above.

The next thing I could remember was that I was on a bed. The comfort was so alien to me that it seemed to hurt even more than all the pain I had endured. I tried to jerk the covers away, but a cold, gentle, reassuringly familiar hand placed itself on my throbbing forehead. I did not want the hand to move. The hand stayed there. I wanted to say something but the words never came out.

After what felt like a minute, I woke up. The hand was not there. Somebody was sitting on an armchair by the bed. His green eyes were immersed in tears. His voice, soft, smoky, slightly strangled - hypnotic - was saying something.

"Harry," I croaked, as his face swam in my line of vision.

He was kneeling at the bedside, weeping, as he held my hand to his shaking forehead.

"This is all my fault," he was saying, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. For everything. If anything had happened to you, I don't know how I would have lived with myself. I don't know how I would have lived at all. Without you, I'm... I - God, I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"No," I said weakly.

"I wish it were me... Me instead of you. I just could not bear the idea of -"

"It's okay, it's over. I'm okay."

He looked up towards me, and I gently pulled my hand away from his, as I remembered.

He straightened himself and smiled slightly, "Ron will be really happy to know you've regained consciousness."

It was a sad sort of smile that lingered on his lips but barely reached his eyes. Maybe. I don't know. I could not read Harry's thoughts anymore. He was not the best friend he once had been. He was far, far away. And all the hurt I had been holding back, all my facade of strength and independence, began to run down my face as treacherous tears.

"Hermione?" he said, anxiously, "what is it?"

"Nothing," I replied dryly, "I'm just happy to be out of there."

"Is that all?" he said, clearly unconvinced.

"And I'm happy that you care so much."

"Wh-what?" he stammered, "Of course - I mean - why would - of course I care. I felt like... like I had died a million deaths in these few days. Just the thought of you in so much pain, hurt me in... in every possible way. Don't you know how much - don't you know what you mean to me?"

"No, I don't," I said coldly, trying to get my limp body to turn away from him, "We've barely spoken in the past few weeks after all."

A long, heavy silence followed my words. I waited. I knew he would never be able to lie to me, pretend that I was imagining things. That much I knew.

And then he spoke, "I thought... you and Ron... I didn't want to come in-between."

My heart ached to see him so unnecessarily guilt-ridden, but my anger overpowered any tenderness that I could have emoted in that moment.

"Even though I told you that I did not love him?" I snapped, "You may be a hero, Harry Potter, but spare me. You will not make my decisions for me."

"You mean you..."

"I mean nothing," I said firmly, and fumed on, "You said that our friendship should not change. So what the hell was all that about? You're such an idiot, Harry, even for a boy! What did you think? That you would sacrifice our friendship so that miraculously Ron and I would end up together? You think that's how it works? And what did you tell him? Did you reassure him that there was no reason for him to be jealous? That I... that I was like a sister to you?"

"No!" he interjected immediately, "Of course not! I was... I was furious that he came back. Because of the way he had treated you! It broke my heart to see you in that state. I had forgotten my own anger towards him, my own hurt. All I could see was how you were crying, and... it hurt me more than anything he could have said to me. And that's not just because you're my friend. Because you're much more.. you've always been really, really special. Not like a sister, though. Definitely not. I mean..."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know."

"Right," I said, not able anymore to contain my smile. He looked so endearing when his eyes widened in confusion in that way.

"You hold a very special place in my heart, Hermione, and you always will. You have no idea... It wasn't easy for me either. I missed you so much, and you being right there, and yet I couldn't... I'm really sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to, I swear. I was just -"

"Confused," I finished for him, "It's okay. I get it. He's your friend, and he's my friend too. But it really is over. He will understand one day. Meanwhile do you plan on behaving like an arse again?"

"No, I promise," he smiled sheepishly, genuinely for the first time.

"Friends?"

"Yeah."

And that infernal weight that had been holding my breaths captive, lifted itself. All was well again.


	10. Light

_**A/N:** I have added the epilogue to the end of this chapter because it seemed silly to have a separate post for such a short piece. Also, the sense of suspense has been lost by now, so it made little sense to prolong the fanfic further, albeit by one more instalment._

_Thank you, everyone, who stuck with the story so far! At the risk of sounding cheesy, what would this writer be without readers to read her into being, so to speak?_

_Update (18/09): Slight edit in the epilogue - added in a line about Harry's last thoughts, for which the credit goes to Lady Asphodelic.  
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The desires of the human heart are limitless, endless; once realised, more are born, each just as worth dying for.

I had been pining for Harry, for him to talk to me normally once again. It was all that I thought I wanted, that he not turn away from me. But even that was not enough anymore. I felt a constant sense of restlessness that jarred violently with the deep sense of peace that I still did feel when our eyes met. It was fear, fear of a most paralysing kind. I dreaded the day that would come and wrench away from me, that which had never been mine to begin with. These were stolen moments of happiness that I was foolish to get attached to. But then, what was the lovestruck heart, if not an utter, complete fool.

It was completely ridiculous, of course - the fact that I, ever so sensible, was suddenly behaving like a stupid lovesick teen... comparing myself with Ginny, hoping that for some reason, Ginny would herself decide to break up with Harry. And yet, how terribly inescapable it was - that sense of jealousy and insecurity, that feeling of inadequacy. Poor Ron! I had never truly been able to understand him, because such emotions had been beyond the reach of my reason. I suppose I was not as clever as I had thought after all. There was so much that could not be rationalised, and yet, was so clearly, poignantly, simply there.

Maybe Luna was not slightly unhinged after all. I looked at her as she slowly ate her breakfast across the table, in the sunlight that poured in from the dome-shaped window of Shell Cottage. She looked emaciated, and her face bore scars of the blows that had been inflicted on her during her captivity at Malfoy Manor. And yet, her eyes still looked as serene as ever - dreamy, yet perceptive in that characteristic discomforting manner. Maybe it was because she understood things that I would never be able to grasp, that she was able to be so nonchalant, no matter what happened to her. Maybe it was because she was, in fact, even as she hummed to herself absent-mindedly, the sanest, wisest of us all.

And I looked at Ron. Brave, resilient Ron, eating as usual with that ravenous appetite of his. I knew I had broken his heart, and that even though he maintained a perfect appearance of optimism, he knew just as well that it was over. And yet, he was just as affectionate, as warm in his own little awkward way. It is easy for strong, confident people to hold on to their ideals; and just as difficult for the rest of us to seek to correct our mistakes and deal with our weaknesses. But somehow, Ron had done it. Even though he had his moments of moodiness, he had tried and continued to do so.

The world was full of such admirable people, beautiful in all their imperfections. How could one be so self-obsessed, when there was so much to be inspired from, if one only managed to step outside of the miseries we wallowed in. Harry, Ron and I - all just as equally flawed - would be nothing without each other. And if, after I had come so close to death, I could not appreciate the beauty of what I had, what sort of life was it that I was choosing for myself.

These thoughts of mine, of course, rung as little more than hollow platitudes, because I lacked the courage to act upon them. But I knew that one day, all would be well. One day, I would be strong enough not to run away from the pain of heartbreak, but to cherish a heart that was able to love unconditionally, like a child. One day, I would be able to embrace the peaceful glow that love had brought into my life, and seek to spread it all around me. Strangely enough, it had taken a brush with a most sinister form of darkness to realise the light that I had within me, somewhere.

My eyes turned to Harry. He was looking at me too. I smiled and stashed away the memory in my secret compartment of happiness. Some things, no matter what, would be mine forever. It was little, but perhaps, little is all we really need.

And so it was, that as we neared our goal, and my sense of dread for the pain that awaited me increased, I continued to struggle to derive solace from the little haven that I had created within myself. I began to feel braver and more hopeful that I would not succumb to despair - as laughable as the very idea of hope was in the anguished times that we lived in. There was always light in the darkest of times, I constantly told myself. And how true it was! Despite all the odds being stacked against us, we had been able to break in and out of Gringotts, having found the cup of Helga Hufflepuff - the fourth Horcrux.

There were, of course, moments of inevitable heartache threatening to shatter my resolve. But I held on to that precarious strand of faith that I really would eventually find a way to be happy. And this, even when we found ourselves in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, and I saw the joy on Ginny and Harry's faces as they met each other after all those months.

I did not miss the concern with which Harry had glanced at me then, as though he knew that behind the strangling lump in my throat, there was a fountain of pain threatening to spill out of my eyes at any moment. And I had smiled back, scared to breathe, lest I should break down, willing every line on my face to convey that I was happy for him, for them.

I retracted away from the pools of torment within me, and tried to focus on the discussion that was taking place, on the artefact belonging to Rowena Ravenclaw. Cho had volunteered to take Harry to the Ravenclaw Tower to meet the ghost of Helena Ravenclaw, and Ginny had immediately interjected, asking Luna to do so. A year ago, I would have smiled at the sweet puerility of the moment, but at that time, I only felt painfully out-of-place, woefully inconsequential.

"You okay?" Ron asked me gently, his eyes piercing into mine.

"Yeah," I replied, as Harry left with Luna.

"Come with me, I have an idea," he said.

We were going to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, the entrance of the Chamber of Secrets. Ron's idea was sheer genius! Even if we did not have the sword of Gryffindor impregnated with basilisk venom, there were still basilisk fangs in the Chamber of Secrets that we could use to destroy the cup and the other Horcruxes.

"Ron, you really are amazing," I said to him, as, following his imitation of Harry's Parseltongue, the washbasins of the bathroom began to rise and separate to reveal the entrance to the Chamber. He simply chuckled lightly and took my hand before we threw ourselves in the tunnel.

Once we had found ourselves before the rotten body of the dead basilisk, he picked up one of the fangs lying on the ground and handed it over to me.

"Your turn," he said, with an enigmatic smile, "It's a great feeling, you'll see."

I felt that nothing could be further from the truth. As soon as I had retrieved the cup from my bag, I felt something rush towards me soundlessly, so fast that it sucked out all the air from my lungs. That sense of dread settled in my heart and thrummed in wild frenzy. I felt everything within me freeze, as all the despair I had been battling came to the fore once again, with vindictive violence. Despite all my pretence at goodness, I shamelessly only wanted Harry all to myself. I was a failure as a friend, as a human being. But I would never get Harry. I was a nobody. I would never be happy.

It was the Horcrux that was spewing this poison, I reminded myself. But how could I convince myself that it was a lie. As much as I tried, I could not bring my hands to stab the cup.

"Hermione," Ron said, grasping my trembling hands, "look at me. It's okay. Everything's going to be okay."

"How?" I gasped.

"Have you told Harry?"

"What?"

"That you love him, you idiot."

I stared at him, nonplussed.

"Right," he continued, "Pretty sure he's so thick that he would not have said anything either. You're both just the same. Way too noble for your own good."

"I'm not," I blurted out, my eyes beginning to well up.

"You are. That's why you did not tell me."

"Ron... honestly, we're just friends."

"Yeah, I know. And it's because you're thinking of everyone else. But think about it, Hermione. We are all so close to death. If this is to be the end, do you really want to be lying to yourself at this point?"

"I'm not... but I don't think Harry -"

"He bloody well does! I'm his best mate, I should know. He's just a stupid git who wants to do the honourable thing and stick with Ginny. But none of us will be happy if he does that. And that includes Ginny."

"But -"

"You know Ginny, she's a tough one. You both are just being thick. You'll see, he will realise soon enough that, cheesy as it sounds, some things are just… meant to happen."

"Really?" I said, hot, heavy tears dropping from my eyes.

"He'd have to be a fool to let go of someone like you."

"Oh Ron," I sobbed, throwing my arms around him, overwhelmed, "you are... you are just..."

"I'm bloody awesome, I know," he said, his voice laced with unmistakable sadness.

The world could never be a perfect place. Every choice made would always be a double-edged sword, bringing both pain and happiness, to us and to those we loved. And yet, true friendship would manage to, somehow, provide that little silver lining that we needed. It was little, yes, but little was oftentimes more than enough.

.

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**Epilogue: King's Cross**

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_Finally, the missing links were manifesting themselves, and the grander scheme of things was revealing itself to Harry. He was somewhere between life and death, a peaceful place filled with light, away from all the human fretting and suffering. Somewhere that, oddly enough, reminded him of King's Cross, the place where his journey into the world of magic had truly begun. It was apt that it should end there, or perhaps that a new beginning should sprout therefrom._

_Of course, as always, Dumbledore was there, his mentor and guide, who, despite his greatness, was in the end just as fallible as all humans were. But that could hardly qualify as a reason to make him any less worthy of respect in Harry's eyes. He had always meant well even though he had perhaps been too intelligent for his own good, and blinded by his own love. But wasn't forgiving somebody his humanity and capacity for love, only natural?_

_Harry looked back at the whimpering form that was the bit of soul of Voldemort that had attached itself to Harry's soul. It was dying, dead. _

_"Do not pity the dead, Harry," Dumbledore said, "Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love. By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart, and if that seems to you a worthy goal -"_

_"It does," Harry replied, knowing that even though he had the choice to go on to death - the next great adventure - his place for now was among the living._

_"Then we say goodbye for the present. But before we part, one last question, if I may. Is there a person in particular that, deep in your heart, you yearn to go back to? Because even death cannot tear you away from that person?"_

_"Professor I..."_

_"But of course you know who I mean. There are a precious few things in life, Harry, that exist beyond our notions of what is right and what is wrong, and love happens to be one of them. Stubborn creature, love is. You know, now, of Severus's love for your mother. It was a love that endured even when she fell in love with another man, through to when she got married and had a child, and even after she had died. Not everyone is fortunate enough to be with the one we love so deeply. Often circumstances or our own choices take us away from that person. But the love remains."_

_"Always," Harry echoed._

_He thought of her, of how deeply her tears had affected him, filled him with helpless fury, how the thought of losing her to her own pain had haunted him for days even after she seemed to have recovered. He remembered how he had tried every day to do something small just to make her smile, so that she would light up his own heart in the way that only she could. He remembered Godric's Hollow, and how it had felt that the word 'home' had gained a new meaning for him because she was there with him. He thought of the feel of her skin on his, of her lips - of the warmth that their closeness had brought to him, of how right it had all seemed. And then, with Ron's return, he had felt so much anger, jealousy, pain, fear, that distancing himself to protect himself had seemed to be the only option. But how those distances had stung! He thought of her face that had swam before his eyes as Voldemort raised his wand to kill him, of the warmth of her last teary hug. _

_And he realised what he had known all along - that his life would be truly worth living, if Hermione was by his side. No amount of pain and suffering could make it any less so._

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**The End**

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